


Late Night Pillow Talks

by ghettoassenglishman



Series: Take my hand--Take My Whole life too [43]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Confessions, Fluff, Late Night Conversations, Light Angst, M/M, Nightmares, Pillow Talk, set in season 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-10
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-29 22:52:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3913663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghettoassenglishman/pseuds/ghettoassenglishman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>- “Do you mind if I talk at you for a bit?” Ian said, eyes finally casting over to Mickey in a pleading manner. “Just- it'd help a lot, get my mind from going all weird after the med's, you know?” He chatters on, gasping each time Mickey's finger screwed into the hardened muscle. “You don't need to answer. Just – listening, I guess.” - </p><p>Mickey and Ian have a much-needed conversation about the past and a little about the future (ensue pillow talk and weepy cuddles)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Late Night Pillow Talks

It had been long enough since Mickey had slept with anyone – actually slept, rather than the more metaphorical meaning of the phrase – that couldn't truthfully say he missed it. Sure, he had shared a bed with Ian, but mostly after they fucked and ended up dropping off onto the sheets. Now, they were _together_ in a sense, so Mickey felt he needed to get used to this. It had never been something he'd been in the habit of doing, if he was honest, but it felt good being next to Ian mostly every night, wrapped up in lanky limbs. 

Mickey would of never thought it  _ would  _ become a habit, with Ian, and that was scary. After-all, everything with Ian had been unexpected. Due to their hectic lives, the fact that Svetlana still wouldn't let Ian move back into the house, it didn't happen that much; just lying there, sleeping, without having their come dried to the sheets, just relishing in the warmth of each-other. Both of them knew they wouldn't give it up, though. 

On this particular night, after Mickey had made sure Ian went to bed after the clinic, the brunette had shifted into his usual spot, the gap between the wall and Ian's limbs. It was earlier than most nights, Mickey had just learnt how to use an Iron, incredibly  _ easy  _ if he thought about it, and he finally drifted off, not even protesting for the first time when Ian curled himself around him. 

It had been the middle of the night, when he shifted awkwardly, groaning against the tossing and turning behind his back. The blanket had been chucked over him, piling against his body, he pries his hand out and swats backwards, hitting against some hard and sweaty. He's only hoping that it's Ian's arm. “Stop.” He grumbles tiredly, hand gripping weakly against Ian's flailing wrist.

Ian makes a slight protest, still in his sleep, trying to pull his wrist back into himself. He tries to toss and turn once more, nearly pulling Mickey over towards him. Again, Mickey tries to wake himself up but his eyes were slowly drooping, hardening his grip he shoves a little harder. “Jesus, fucking stop.”

“I can't help it.” Ian mumbles back, and Mickey was unsure whether he was asleep or actually talking. Despite the guilt, and want to turn and wrap himself around the other man, Mickey shuffled further into the wall, hand still holding his grip. When Ian started to turn again, he pulls harshly at his wrist, positioning him against his back. Ian's chest is heaving against him, sweat sticking to his bare back.

For a while, it remained unmoved, a silence finally hovering over the small single bed that they some-how managed to fit in. Until, he feels the redhead shift slightly against his back, his breathing becoming more hitched and clogged, his legs move against the sheets trying to find a piece of cold through the heat. Sighing heavily, trying to make a stand, Mickey warns, “Stop or I'll fucking suffocate you.”

Ian grunts, a little annoyed, but rests his chin onto Mickey's shoulder, hands placed against the older boys chest, and his breathing finally steadied.

The charm always worked.

 

                                                                                                                     ***

 

Then  _ again  _ Mickey finds himself awake, this time by something different. His eyes fluttered open when something brushed softly against his face, his nose, his cheek – a hand. A familiar, lean, soft hand. It startled him awake, causing him to shoot up a little, before his mind reminded him that it was only Ian. It was always Ian. The redhead was sitting up to, smoke rising from the limp cigarette that rested in-between his lips, his body silhouetted against the dim light shedding from underneath the bedroom door; Mickey tried to place Ian's expression, but he failed. 

“Sorry.” Ian murmured, turning his head to look at Mickey who laid on his back, blankets stuck around his chest. Stubbing out his smoke, he adds, “Didn't mean to wake you, I just-” his voice was slightly hoarse, a little croaky at each syllable, genuinely apologetic, like he always was when this happened.

“Nightmare?” Mickey asks, shifting a little higher against the headboard, already predicting the answer he would receive. It happened most nights; Ian's kicking, screaming, eyes fluttering rapidly through the dread of his night-terror. The med's didn't make it any better, they made him delusional, made him dream past, horrific memories, that most times Mickey didn't know how to control.

“Yeah.” Ian let out a long sigh, avoiding eye contact with Mickey, fiddling with the sheets that rested to the side of him.

Mickey wondered if he should ask what it had been about; he knew _of_ nightmares, but Ian's were more complicated, since he came back he was a little more distant. A little more enclosed. Mickey hated that he was the reason for that. Besides, he had remembered Ian's soft hand against his face, the details surfacing; the trace of his fingers along the bridge of his nose and down around the line of his jaw, feeling for bones, feeling for surface. He had an idea what it was about, without even having to ask.

“You okay, man?” He asks, mentally punching himself when Ian flinched against the words. He reaches over, hand brushing over Ian's exposed knee. They are pressed together, shoulder to shoulder, and Mickey couldn't help but rest his hand on the side of Ian's neck, fingers playing with the curls at his nape. “You want me to get something, water or some shit?”

Ian leans into the touch, a little, swallowing hard. He knew Mickey was referring to some sort of medication. “No, I, uh, I don't think I can take any more pills.” He rubs a hand across his face, feeling himself burn up from the inside out.

Mickey silences himself guilty, hand still rubbing against Ian's tensed shoulder.

“Do you mind if I talk at you for a bit?” Ian said, eyes finally casting over to Mickey in a pleading manner. “Just- it'd help a lot, get my mind from going all weird after the med's, you know?” He chatters on, gasping each time Mickey's finger screwed into the hardened muscle. “You don't need to answer. Just – listening, I guess.”

“Sounds good.” Mickey barely whispers, still keeping the two sleeping others in the room in constant mind. He reaches out, drawing Ian down with him and under the sprawled out single-quilt. It's thin, but the heat already burning through was enough. When his thumb brushed the curve of Ian's throat, leaning his head against the base of his shoulder, he could feel his pulse, still fast; his body filled with hefty stark of tension. “Spit it out, Gallagher.”

Ian snorts weakly, fingers curling around the joint of Mickey's wrist. “Um,” he mumbles, staring up to the ceiling as he leans into the sensitive touch of Mickey's finger-tops, tension belittling. “I think I might need to explain some things.”

Mickey stiffens as Ian carries on, unable to offer any interaction just yet. “You know, the Army, the club, taking off, flushing my med's.” The list seems never-ending, as if it would carry out through the rest of his life. Mickey hummed for him elaborate, taking a deep breath, Ian speaks shakily, “It seems like years since I left, getting on that bus, taking off into my useless dream-”

Mickey cuts in, leaning up with a warning arched eyebrow, “It wasn't fucking useless.”

“Think about it,” Ian starts, proving his point, head tilted to side to lock their eyes together. “I was never going to get into Westpoint, I'd never be fit enough or smart enough for it, because sooner or later this fucking disorder would kick in and mess everything up.” His eyes are slightly glazing over, Mickey couldn't blame him, it was his dream, his hopes, and now they were lost.

Ian regains himself, gulping away his cut throat, he turns back to the ceiling, “I know why you did it. You know. The wedding, getting married.” He feels Mickey tense against his chest, his own beating rapidly as he recalls the memories. “You didn't have the choice, well you did, but you did it for the right thing. Didn't you?”

He looks over to Mickey, his lip quivering slightly. Mickey would never admit his motive for marrying Svetlana. There were many reasons; to get his dad of his back, to get him off _Ian's_ back, to prove that he wasn't gay, to show he was a man and no-one could say shit. Some people loved attention, but Mickey – he really fucking loathed it.

“I guess I got all fucking caught up in it. I had always felt like that; second best.” Ian confesses in the dark, his voice only a whisper through Mickey's laboured breathing. Mickey wanted to say something, but the words caught in his throat. Ian speaks a head, “I questioned going to enlist, I really did, but Lip said something to me that day that I thought I believed. I don't now.”

Intrigued, Mickey's eyes perk, “What did he say?” Even if he knew it was most-likely about him.

Ian's struck silent, forgetting that he would have to explain. “He, ur, it felt good to hear the words at the time. But, he, he said that I could always do better than you.” He bites his lip, sinking his teeth into his bottom lip, he could see the split from interest to hurt. Mickey's face dropped.

“For once he's telling the fucking truth.” Mickey gulps back, sighing heavily.

In shock, and tiredness, Ian jolts around, turning onto his side, facing Mickey. “I don't believe him. I don't think I ever did.” His voice was pure, genuine, causing Mickey's stomach to fall and turn, twisting into knots that cremated his sense of direction.

Turning too, Mickey flickers his eyes to Ian's, hand tracing around the bump of Ian's shoulder. Quietly, he points, “You still left.”

“I know.” Ian admits, sniffing up intentionally. Trying to rid of Mickey's expression that day, the way his words were literally _there_ but Ian was too stubborn to wait it out. To wait for Mickey to be ready. Clenching his eyes shut, he lets one tear fall, before opening the red, puffiness that surrounded. “But I guess my mind was fucked from the start, I was just too stubborn to notice that.”

Mickey nods, realising that Ian wasn't using his disorder as an excuse, but it felt better that Ian was starting to acknowledge it. _It would take time,_ he repeats mentally. Hoping.

“Then it got worse,” Ian begins again, continuously sniffing up through his blocked nose. “I couldn't take the drills, the noise, the beat downs. It all got too much,” He pulls his hand from Mickey's waist, tugging at the fallen strand before his face. “I went bat-shit, tried to run away. Like always.” He whispers, letting his hand be pulled away from his face.

The older boy just listens, contently, watching as Ian struggled to push his words out. Waiting, patiently, for answers that had been niggling his mind for months. He smooths his hand over the sweat-ridden column of Ian's neck, thumb stroking idly.

Ian lets out a wet laugh, muffled in the fabric of the pillow, his face scrunches, “Then – then I thought the club had _all_ the answers. Monica would bring me there, show me to friends of hers, get me to take them back our place.” He doesn't finish it off, in knowledge of Mickey's grunt of jealously, his grumble of hurt. Pounding on, Ian says, bitterly – towards himself - “Booze, drugs, shit one-night-stands, getting up on that podium, it was _real._ It reflected how I had felt in so many fucking years, and yeah – it helped.”

Mickey's not sure whether Ian's high, or if he was just weird after his medication, but it felt like the redhead was speaking truthfully. Mickey hated the fact it was.

Scooting a little closer, arm hesitating to rest at Mickey's hip, Ian carries on, laughing a little manically, “I thought that _all_ that shit would help me forget,” his face turns into a scowl, a tear running smoothly over the bridge of his nose. “Forget you, forget how much I-” he cuts his words short. “I _needed_ you off my mind. I needed you to leave.”

Leaning forward, Mickey brushes his hands off Ian's upper arms, trying to ground him from shaking against the sheets. The talk had spiralled, and Mickey wasn't sure how to tame it. He wasn't good with this stuff, _never_ had he been good at this. Ian pushes him off, curling in himself. “No. Just – fucking – you came in there that day and you ripped me out of my own darkness.” He whispers, voice breaking.

Mickey feels his heart shatter. It had been the first time they had spoken about it, but he listens.

“For weeks I tried to _feel_ something.” Ian admits again, letting his head fall against Mickey's shoulder, mouth muffled as the crown of his skull tucked beneath Mickey's chin. “I guess the only way I could, was to see you. It's fucked up, I _was_ fucked up.” Mickey swears his hears Ian mumble something else, he didn't have to guess to know what it was.

Clutching helplessly to Mickey, Ian sighs, “Taking Yev, cheating, flushing my medication, I just – I wanted to feel like that again. Like you were rescuing me from that shitty place.” He gulps loudly, loud enough for Mickey to feel it. One hand gripping to Mickey's thigh, he cries a little, “I'm so fucking sorry, you believe that, right?”

“I do.” Mickey says, hand falling into Ian's red hair, brushing the strayed strands into place.

Lifting his head, Ian looks like a blobfish, but utterly adorable. Mickey could tell he was tired, that he might emigrate to his bed for a couple of days. Something he wanted to resist. “You shouldn't.” Ian comments, sharply, his voice harsh with hurt.

“I don't give a shit.” Mickey spits out, dragging Ian closer to himself, despite the redheads protests. “I believe what I want to believe. Jesus, I don't care what you say, or your asshole of a brother says, I'm _in_ this. All of it.” he grumbles, winding his hand around to wipe it roughly down his face. He's surprised that Ian didn't already know that.

Ian falls into the warmth, his sniffles growing smaller, his hands tightly gripping to Mickey within the dark. Over the last weeks, it felt so distant, that he was living a life he didn't deserve. Letting out a sob, he curls further into Mickey's embrace, mumbling, “It's not going to be easy.”

Obviously, Mickey knew this. Nothing had ever been easy for them. The relationship was built on foundations of hurt, betrayal, fear, but most importantly it was led by their hearts. The only things that still remained through the fucked-up-mess their lives had become. Lifting Ian up by his chin, he frowns, dismissively, “You don't think I fucking know that?”

Shrugging, Ian answers, trying to breathe as Mickey's thumb swiped his tear away. “I'm just reminding you that you can leave, I'm not going to keep you here if-if you can do better.” Ian had been thinking of this for a long time; Mickey finally being happy. Through all the med's, the blurry eye-sight, the blocked ears, it still remained a particular goal, that it was important Mickey was happy.

Mickey rolls his eyes, shifting them into a comfortable position, pressing Ian into his side, looking down at him through his lashes. “I ain't here to be fucking happy, I'm never going to be better. I'm here to be with _you_ whatever the fuck that means.” He starts, his words firing out like bullets he couldn't control. “So, deal with it. You're as stuck with me as I am with you, so fuck off with your insightful, humble offers, I'm staying right here.”

Ian can't hide his smile in the crook of Mickey's arm, shyly bringing his hand to his face. His mind was fuzzy, blurry even – he wasn't entirely sure whether it was actually happening. Mickey was looking at him as if the sun shone straight out of his ass, like the stars lit bright in his eyes, and as much as he wanted that – he knew it wasn't true, he knew the sun didn't radiate off him like it used to. With Mickey there – it felt like the light was slowly emerging through the black mist, the dark cloud, like he was some-sort of angelic creature that was sent to pull him out of the pit.

God, Ian hoped the analogies were right.

 

                                                                                                                     ***

When Ian had finally calmed, Mickey switched their positions and sprawled himself against Ian's chest, leg swinging over his hip and hooking itself under Ian's arm. The sun was slowly rising, and for the first time Ian hadn't got up to run, he stayed content, resting in the warmth of the body wrapped around him. They both stared up to the ceiling, sneakily taking glances before turning quickly away. Ian hums, hands trailing down the side of Mickey's biceps. “We should get a mirror up there.”

“Up where?” Mickey grunts, unsure of what Ian was talking of until the redhead pointed to the ceiling. Turning abruptly, Mickey leans up against his elbows, either side of Ian's chest. “Why the fuck would you want a mirror up there?” He arches his brow with question, forming a giggle from Ian.

It was as if the nightmare hadn't existed, that they weren't as fucked up as they knew themselves to be. Stifling his laugh, Ian adoringly looks towards Mickey, lips curled into a shy smile, eyes filled with a mixture of lust and pure – wait, was that _love?_ “I want to see us, see _you,_ like this.”

Pulling a face, Mickey snorts uncharitably, “Fucking weirdo.” manoeuvring himself around, he shuffles down the bed so his head was lent directly against Ian's heart beat. He doesn't admit, or show, but it was the best feeling in the world. “Next you'll want to fuck in-front of the bathroom mirror.”

“Oh, Mick.” Ian sighs, loudly, running a hand through Mickey's dark-hair. Then his voice comes out a little louder, a little more intense, finally pulling Mickey awake. “Fuck it, lets do it.” his hand grips onto Mickey's shoulder, dragging up into a sitting position. He looked more alive than he had for the past couple of days. Mickey wanted to believe it would last.

And he hoped they did too.


End file.
